Four Sides Four Corners
by JustAnotherGoofball
Summary: Square. That was one way to describe her, the other was 'that girl with the hot mom'. She liked being ordinary, average. But after being absent from Junior High for a week, she returns to find some things have...changed? And is that a good thing?


**Author's notes: I know, I know, I should finish my other stuff, but this one's been bugging me. **

**Disclaimer: I own everyone in this chapter. And later on, I own just the people you don't recognise.**

**Chapter One**

"Rise and shine sleepy head!" My mother sing-songed as she brutally tore apart my bedroom curtains; the flowered fabric revealing an intense amount of white light. It poured into the room, revealing everything that had just moments before been hidden in darkness. My eyes failed to adjust, and I tugged the bed sheet over my head.

"Mom!!" I wailed in annoyance.

The sheets were ripped from me almost immediately, and I felt somewhat embarrassed at my mother seeing me curled in the fetal position, wearing flannel pyjamas with cats on. She sat down on the edge of the bed, the light from the window reflecting on her blonde hair, making it shine like a halo. Her hand reached out, and she placed it on my forehead, despite the fact that I had tried to bury myself in the pillow.

Her azure eyes narrowed, "Hmm, not as bad as yesterday." She removed her hand, and looked disapprovingly at the waste bin by my bed; it was overflowing with used tissues. "How did you sleep?" She picked up a few of the tissues off my bedside table and placed them on top of the bin, making it tower at least three inches from the rim.

I turned over and lay straight, trying to pull up the covers but to no avail. My mother either didn't notice or ignored my struggles. "I woke up a few times, when I first went to sleep."

She nodded, "I heard you coughing." And began to stand up and stroked out any creases that may have formed on her dress and apron. "You don't sound as bunged up." She began to pick up the empty glasses on my bedside table, and eyed the empty cough medicine bottle before picking that up too. "I'll get you some down from the store today."

I murmured a response and began to sit up, knowing I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep.

My mother sighed and looked at me, one hand holding the recent occupants of my bedside table, the other on her hip, "You're definitely going back to school tomorrow, okay?"

I smiled, "Yeah, thanks Mom."

She pulled the covers back up, just to my waist, as I propped up my pillows against the headboard and sunk back. "Hungry?"

I fidgeted slightly as I pulled the bed sheet up higher and wrapped my arms around it to keep it there, I glanced at my flicker clock, 6:04am.

"Just a bit."

And with that, she left my room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Open doors had always irritated me; whether it stemmed from a childhood fear of the closet monster, I wasn't sure. But I had to get out of bed, I had to close the door. I swung my legs out, my bare feet connecting with thick, baby-pink carpet, I glanced around for my slippers. I reached under my bed and pulled them out, tucking my feet into them. I stood up, and suddenly needed the toilet.

I pulled myself forward, my whole body felt stiff, like I had slept like one of the contortionists I had seen at the circus as a little girl, but had woke up in a perfectly normal position. I stretched my arms slightly as I walked down the hall to the bathroom, exactly opposite my room, and heard my bones crack in satisfaction. I passed my brother's bedroom, whose door was also slightly open, but I doubted he was awake yet. At thirteen he was still struggling to get up in the morning and get ready for school, I think it made my mother grateful, that now he was at Junior High, he was partly my responsibility too. If he missed the bus, so did I, if some bully stole his lunch money, he'd have to find his big sister and borrow some of hers'. And occasions like that happened too often for me to recollect a particular instance.

I entered the bathroom, overwhelmed by turquoise and linoleum. It was what woke me up completely in the morning. My father had started to retile the bathroom that May, but an important business trip had arisen and we were left with the turquoise tiles, only half chipped away. The pink champagne tiles my mother had bought on sale were still in their boxes, stacked at one end of the bath tub. I had asked why didn't we just painted over the already existing turquoise tiles, but my parents had given me that whole 'you're-only-fifteen-what-do-you-know-about-decorating-a-bathroom?' look.

While I was washing my hands, I glanced at myself in mirror, directly over the sink. My hair hadn't been washed for a week because of the cold, and it clung greasily to my head. My skin had also suffered, it was never clear by any means, but the lack of fresh air for a week had brought out teenage acne at full force. "Damn adolescence" I muttered drying my hands on the plush white towel.

I wondered what my mother thought of me, when I looked like this. Her hair was always clean and styled, her skin was like polished porcelain, she was radiant, beautiful. And I was always told "I had been such a pretty child" when people saw photos of me before I hit puberty. I hoped it was all just a phase, and that I was still growing, and would still change.

I had my mother's eyes, but with green and hazel flecks around the iris. This always made it hard for me to distinguish what colour eyes I had, they never looked the same. My natural hair colour was a mousey brown, almost dark blonde. I had asked my mother if I could have hair like hers, blonde like Marilyn Monroe and Jean Harlow. My father was sceptical, he disliked the fact that his daughter wanted to change herself, he saw nothing wrong - like most fathers. My mother however saw it as thrilling, and had joked and said we'd be like twins. We weren't. My hair hadn't gone platinum blonde, but a dark strawberry blonde, almost ginger. I didn't mind much.

I walked back to my bedroom, scratching my head in attempt to un-flatten my hair. I would wash it that night in the bath, ready for school tomorrow. I got back into bed, kicking off my slippers and pulling the bed-sheet back up to my chest. I felt well enough to go back to school, and I did want to go, but my head still felt as if it was being compressed. Everything felt, well, muddled. I had gone through my maths textbook the previous day and had struggled to do some of the easier equations, I did not want to go to school if I couldn't concentrate. I would be better by tomorrow, today I just needed to rest and try and make myself not look like I'd been living in the chip-fryer at the Blue Point Diner for a week.

My mother came back into my room ten minutes later while I was fiddling with the knob on my portable radio, Pat Boone was half way through 'Love Letters in the Sand'. I left it on.

A tray was placed in front of me, brimming with bacon and pancakes, freshly made and covered in butter and syrup. I dug in greedily.

"I brought you some hot lemon," she said while resting a steaming hot mug on my bedside table. She looked at me, scoffing my face with crispy pancake and soft pancakes, and ruffled my hair, thankfully not getting caught in the grease-trap that it was. She began to walk out the room.

"Hey, Mom, can you ask Davey to get any work I've missed?" I asked, halfway through a mouthful.

"Didn't he get you some yesterday?" She'd turned at the doorway and leaned against the frame.

I swallowed my food, "Yeah, but I might have missed something important today, I don't want to have to catch up in class tomorrow."

She smiled again, "Okay." And then she left, this time, closing the door completely behind her.

I considered her while I ate, the beautiful housewife. She never looked like a housewife, except for the apron, and sometimes when me and my brother were shopping with her, trailing behind. She flirted with other men, but was completely devoted and loyal to our father. Other women in the neighbourhood either envied my mother, or hated and envied her. Sometimes she felt more like a sister, when she giggled and shared jokes with me, but then there were times like this, when I had been home from school for a week and she had looked after me, feeding me and bringing me hot drinks. She was an entirely different species.

I glanced at the mug with daises on it, the liquid inside was the colour of piss. I shrugged, I knew I had to be better for tomorrow. I gulped three times, it tasted just as bad.

**Author's Notes: This chapter is basically just to introduce you to our girl, her life etc and that's why it's this lengthy. SBM cast should arrive around chapter three. I'm thinking about making the chapters shorter. About 500 words each? If the chapters are shorter, I'll be able to do them quicker? This is going to be a fast fic, I aim to finish in one/two months. Answers on a postcard! …and reviews please!**

**JustAnotherGoofball**

**Lou**


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